The whole work could not be
published in the lifetime of the present generation." This makes, within a
month, the third toothsome dish as to which I have had the exasperating
news that it is being reserved for that spoiled child, posterity. I may
say, however, that I do not regard "De Profundis" as one of Wilde's best
books. I was disappointed with it. It is too frequently insincere, and
the occasion was not one for pose. And it has another fault. I happened to
meet M. Henry Davray several times while he was translating the book into
French. M. Davray's knowledge of English is profound, and I was
accordingly somewhat disconcerted when one day, pointing to a sentence in
the original, he asked, "What does that mean?" I thought, "Is Davray at
last 'stumped'?" I examined the sentence with care, and then answered, "It
doesn't mean anything." "I thought so," said M. Davray. We looked at each
other. M. Davray was an old friend of Wilde's, and was one of the dozen
men who attended his desolating funeral. And I was an enthusiastic admirer
of Wilde's style at its best. We said no more. But a day or two later a
similar incident happened, and yet another.
* * * * *
Wilde's letters to Mr. Ross from prison are extremely good.
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